


Black Blood

by poselikeateam



Series: Higher Vampire Jaskier AUs [13]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Banter, Bruxae (The Witcher), Canon-Typical Violence, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Old Married Couple, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vampire Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher Contracts, Witcher Potions (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25473193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: Who knew taking a single potion would be such a life-changing event?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Higher Vampire Jaskier AUs [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754371
Comments: 20
Kudos: 695





	Black Blood

It’s not always — or even usually — the case that a hunt goes better than expected, from beginning to end. Whenever it does, it’s almost alarming due to the rarity of it. Somehow, though, it does happen on occasion, and Geralt is always more than thankful for it.

This happens to be one of those times. As soon as they’d arrived in the village, they were treated so… _kindly_ , that Geralt had immediately been suspicious. He wanted to leave, assuming that it was some kind of trap, but Jaskier talked him down in that way of his. They were promised free room and board if he’d clear out some catacombs nearby, and a hefty reward to go along with it. 

Apparently, the alderman is a _huge_ fan of Jaskier’s, and by extension, of Geralt’s — and, by _further_ extension, of witchers in general. Rather than being labelled some kind of freak, degenerate, or pariah, he had used his own charm and influence to spread his own viewpoint, to the point that at the very least everyone in town passively tolerates witchers. Many people, though, are downright _friendly_.

He’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop this whole time. The pay was more than fair, the accommodations were nice, the townsfolk were friendly — so what is going to go wrong? Because, with things like this, it’s better to treat it as a matter of not _if_ but _when_. 

Somehow, though, the job continues to defy his expectations. He keeps waiting for something to go wrong, and things only keep going right. There was a survivor of one of the attacks who was able to give him not only a good description of what he’s hunting — bruxae — but a good estimate of how many to expect, as well — only five. He’s able to make use of the element of surprise, incapacitating one before the other four can react. When they do, one gets a bite in, and even that is a boon. She takes a hearty swig of his blood before falling down dead, because he’d taken a dose of Black Blood before the battle. The final three bruxae are easy enough to deal with, and when Geralt searches the catacombs, there isn’t anything else hiding there.

At this point he’s expecting there to be some problem with collecting his pay, but the alderman is apparently a man of his word, and even throws in a bonus. The man actually _shakes his hand_. 

As he walks into the inn, Geralt is finally starting to think that this whole thing might not be some kind of elaborate trap. For a brief moment, he tenses when he doesn’t see Jaskier, but then the innkeep is telling him that the bard is already in their room, probably having a well-earned rest after a fantastic performance. If not for the sting from the barely-still-bleeding gash left by the bruxa’s teeth, Geralt might think he’s dreaming. Things _never_ go this well for him.

He’s in a tentative good mood when he walks into their room and sees Jaskier, who is not in any sort of trouble. When he sees the look on the bard’s face, though, he’s immediately on alert again. Jaskier has this horrified look, like Geralt has just come into the room and started eating human flesh right in front of him.

“Jaskier?”

“Dear Gods,” Jaskier says, gagging. “What the fuck is that smell!?”

Geralt shrugs, relaxing again. “You’ve smelled worse on me,” he says, because it’s true. This is probably the cleanest he’s been after a fight in months, at least.

“No, I haven’t,” insists the bard. “Gods, you smell like— like something died, and was left in the sun for too long, and then got stuffed into an old shoe, and then the old shoe got stuffed into a drunkard’s arsehole, and then the _drunkard_ died—”

“I get it,” grumbles the witcher. 

“No, I don’t think you do,” murmurs Jaskier. Then, pinching his nose, he comes closer to Geralt. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “You’re injured.”

Geralt shrugs again. “Nothing severe,” he says. “Bruxa got a bite in — didn’t last long after that.”

Some unreadable expression crosses the bard’s features as he says, “What do you mean? Is witcher blood poisonous, or something? Did she poison you?”

Shaking his head, the witcher answers, “Not usually, and no. Took a potion — Black Blood. Exactly what it sounds like.”

“Oh,” answers Jaskier, almost alarmingly quiet. Then, a tentative, “How… how long until it wears off?”

Furrowing his brow, the witcher asks, “Why? Not going to put this into one of your songs, are you?” And he doesn’t actually care, really, but he is worried about the abnormally subdued way Jaskier is acting. It’s disconcerting at best, and he hopes that a little teasing will get him to snap out of it.

Unfortunately, it does not. “Oh, no. Just, um. Curious. You know me.”

Hm. “Lasts about as long as any other potion,” he says, mostly to see the bard’s reaction. 

It’s as if a weight is physically lifted off of Jaskier’s shoulders. He looks so relieved it’s alarming. “Oh, good. Great.”

“Why?” Geralt asks again. Why is this so important?

Jaskier fidgets, doesn’t look at him. “Well,” he says, hesitating, “I just… don’t want you to walk around all poison-y forever. Doesn’t sound healthy, does it?”

And that would be a good answer, he thinks. It would make a lot of sense for a human to be worried about that sort of thing, if that human had a strange penchant for worrying over witchers the way Jaskier does. Only, well, that’s the reason he doesn’t believe it, sort of — Geralt _is_ a witcher. With his heightened senses, he can tell when the other man is lying.

Like now.

“Jaskier,” he says, crossing his arms. He doesn’t know if ‘stern’ is the right way to go, but it’s what he’s going to try first, if only because he’s good at it. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Plenty of things,” answers the bard, a little too quickly. “You say I talk a lot but Geralt, dear, you wouldn’t _believe_ all of the things I _don’t_ say! For example, yesterday I saw a frog that—”

“Jaskier,” he says again. His tone carries a note of warning, because he knows that the bard is trying to distract him, trying to change the subject. Even if Geralt were a complete idiot, he couldn’t miss the way Jaskier’s heart starts rabbiting in his chest. 

“Yes, darling?” 

“You’re hiding something.”

“A musician must have _some_ secrets, dear heart,” Jaskier answers evasively.

“Stop trying to distract me,” says Geralt with a pointed frown. “Even if you weren’t a shit liar, I know you far too well for that to work. It’s insulting.”

Predictably, Jaskier bristles at that. “Excuse you!” he answers, crossing his own arms. “I’ll have you know I am an _excellent_ liar!”

Geralt waits for him to realise that he hasn’t denied lying. 

“I mean, that is to say when I am lying. Which I’m not. What would I be lying about? Don’t insinuate— oh, fuck off!” Jaskier’s slightly panicked backtracking is interrupted by Geralt quietly laughing at him. 

“You’re too easy,” says the witcher, teasing. In that moment he realises that perhaps he is too easy as well, that Jaskier knows him as well as he knows the bard. Jaskier had almost succeeded in distracting him after all. “You aren’t getting out of this, though.”

Jaskier, who had been looking like he was trying very hard to look upset but was actually on the verge of grinning, practically deflates when he realises that his plan to change the subject had not actually worked. His shoulders slump, and he begins to fidget again.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says, not quite looking at Geralt.

“You can start with whatever you’re trying not to,” answers the witcher. 

“See, that’s what I was trying to avoid,” Jaskier replies, “hence the ‘trying not to’.”

“Do you want me to guess, instead?” Geralt offers, half-joking. 

“That… might not be as difficult,” the bard haltingly agrees.

“Alright,” sighs the witcher. “You’ve never been around when I’ve taken Black Blood. Even if you were, it only affects my blood, and is undetectable if I’m not bleeding — otherwise, it would be of no use, if vampires were able to tell my blood is poisoned before trying to drink it. It _only_ affects vampires. Once a vampire drinks my blood under the effects of this particular potion, it works as a very fast-acting and incurable poison. 

“I’ve seen vampires react to my blood after it kills one of their brethren, but I had always assumed that they were reacting to the death of one of their own. It makes sense, though, that once it’s no longer in my body, my blood smells awful to vampires. After all, it _is_ poison for them. When it’s outside of me, it’s too late for one reason or another — either I’m dead, or the vampire is. 

“So, I come back to our room, cleaner than I’ve been after a hunt in a long time, but you insist that I smell worse than ever. The only difference is that I’ve taken Black Blood, and I am bleeding. Black Blood, as I’ve said, only affects vampires. Stop me if I’m wrong?”

Jaskier is silent. It’s very strange — Geralt has just downright _monologued_ and Jaskier isn’t making a peep. Of course, if there’s one thing Geralt can talk about at length, it’s his profession. And if there’s one thing that makes a disguised nonhuman uncomfortable, it’s pointing out what they are.

After a long moment of Geralt looking at Jaskier expectantly and Jaskier looking at anything but Geralt, the bard sighs, defeated. “Fine,” he snaps, “yes, okay? I’m a vampire.”

“Hmm,” says Geralt. He had assumed, of course, but he appreciates the confirmation.

“I’m not going to— to try to eat you, or anything!” insists the bard. “Really, I would _never_ do that to you. I just— Geralt, I say this as lovingly as possible, you smell _awful_. If you were going to smell like _that_ forever, I don’t know that I’d be able to handle it. My nose would fall off. I might try to drink your horrid poisoned blood just to put myself out of my misery!”

Geralt frowns. “I know you’re joking, but don’t,” he says tersely.

Jaskier tenses up. “I told you, I wouldn’t,” he says, sounding at once contrite and somewhat petulant in that way only Jaskier can.

The witcher sighs and says, “I don’t mean it like that. I don’t want to think about you dying. I don’t care if you try to bite me.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Geralt himself is a little surprised at his own admission. He’d never thought about it — of course he hadn’t, he’d only just found out Jaskier is a vampire! — but it makes sense. It’s certainly no secret by now how they feel for one another, how they care for each other; just as he never wants to hurt the bard, he knows the bard would never willingly hurt him in turn. Jaskier isn’t dangerous, not really. Well, anything can be dangerous, but the fact of the matter is that he trusts Jaskier, perhaps more than he’s trusted anyone before. Jaskier would never hurt him if he could help it, even if Geralt didn’t have his witcher strength and sturdiness. He’s more of a danger to himself than anything, Geralt can’t help but think with some fondness.

With a shrug, Geralt decides to forego the sappy shit and instead answers with a more comfortable, “I’d rather it be me than some human. They react poorly enough when you’re just ploughing their wives. I don’t think they’d take too kindly to catching you drinking their blood.”

Finally, Jaskier snorts with amusement. “Yes, I do suppose there are better ways to be run out of a town.”

Raising one eyebrow, the witcher says, “Usually, the goal is to not get run out of a town at all.”

“Yes,” answers Jaskier with barely-suppressed mirth, “but it’s bound to happen sometimes, isn’t it?”

“When a certain bard can’t keep his prick to himself, I suppose,” Geralt retorts.

“Honestly!” tuts said bard. “You act like I’m some sort of insatiable scoundrel!”

“Are you trying to tell me you aren’t?”

Jaskier _squawks_ , sounding more like a raven than a songbird, and Geralt can’t — or, more accurately won’t — stop himself from laughing.

They fall into a companionable sort of quiet, as they tend to from time to time. That is to say Geralt is quiet, and Jaskier is making noise to himself, and the whole thing is very comfortable. It’s almost entirely devoid of the awkwardness of Jaskier’s previous forced confession, but Geralt can still tell that the bard is hesitant to accept that things are truly fine between them.

“I don’t still smell like poison, do I?” he snarks after Jaskier glances at him and then quickly glances away for what must be the thousandth time.

“No,” answers the bard, fidgeting again. “I just… you’re sure that this is okay?”

“Jaskier,” says Geralt, disbelieving, “you honestly think I care that you aren’t human?”

“Well… maybe? Honestly, Geralt, you’re a _witcher_. You just killed, what, five vampires _today_? It isn’t really a stretch,” points out Jaskier.

And it actually makes Geralt feel kind of sick, that the bard feels that way. “They were hurting people,” he says. He’s never felt the need to justify _doing his job_ like this, and it’s very uncomfortable, to feel like he suddenly should. “You don’t hunt and kill humans. You’re a bard, not a killer.”

“I could be both,” whispers Jaskier, insecurity colouring his tone. “How do you know I’m not?”

“Aside from the fact that we spend most of our time together?” Geralt says with a shrug. “I know _you_. I can’t imagine you hurting anyone who doesn’t deserve it — well, besides yourself, you clumsy bastard.”

Jaskier snorts in unmasked amusement, and shoves the witcher, knocking their shoulders together in a way that’s equal parts fond and admonishing. “Fuck off,” he says without any actual bite. 

Geralt rolls his eyes, pretending to be very put-upon, and ruins the effect with the soft smile he doesn’t bother keeping off of his face. “Suppose I won’t have to worry as much about you getting into trouble,” he muses. 

“If you think I’ll try getting into less trouble, you’re sorely mistaken, my love,” Jaskier answers, resting his head on Geralt’s shoulder.

“No, but now I know I don’t have to save your arse when you start shit.”

“Oh, I am wounded. Chivalry truly is dead,” deadpans the bard. 

It’s very, very rare that a contract goes well for Geralt from start to finish. He’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong. This one time, though, it had gone better than he’d ever imagined, and he finally allows himself to enjoy it while it lasts.


End file.
